


[watch me fall apart, watch me fall apart]

by djmarinizela



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Angst, College AU, Comfort, Coming of Age, F/M, Inspired by Richard Siken, Professor Levi Ackerman, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, Writers, and all the writers who made me cry in college, and yearning, lots of pining, young adult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29595849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djmarinizela/pseuds/djmarinizela
Summary: Levi Ackerman is your mentor and you’re his student. That’s all there is to it.But love happens, anyway.
Relationships: Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/You, Levi Ackerman & Reader, Levi Ackerman/Petra Ral, Levi Ackerman/Reader
Comments: 34
Kudos: 59





	[watch me fall apart, watch me fall apart]

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Ben Howard’s song, Only Love

You didn’t know much about words, didn't know anything about the way ideas and feelings are pieced together in writing. And then he came along and strung your thoughts together, the ones you’ve always kept at the back of your mind. 

He starts the conversation over beer. "Shit, it's been, what, three years since?" 

"Since I left, yeah." You are having dinner with him at the old-fashioned restaurant across campus, just like the old times. "Levi, you haven't changed."

He clicks his tongue, runs a hand through his hair. "Tough luck." 

It's the same gesture he's always done.

You've known him for seven years. You think time is playing a trick on you. You believe it is.

* * *

The memories take you back from the very beginning: it's the start of your sophomore year but you have signed up for electives, hence why you're dragging your heavy feet to class on a hot Monday afternoon. You're not an arts student; you're majoring in a science course, but your luck ran out of slots. So now you're stuck in a creative writing class for the summer.

He enters the room and you think he's just another student, young and casual as he looks, until he paces around in front of the class and introduces himself as the professor. His presence is intimidating; the look in his eyes so unyielding it demands attention. He gives a speech of why most of the students in front of him are just random people trying to fill in their elective slots. From the way he sounds so frustrated, you can tell that he’s had students before who didn’t even give a damn about writing. 

The guilt that is eating you inside out makes you want to crawl out of the room and ditch out. 

“However,” he says, “if you put enough effort, you might end up liking this class.”

There are murmurs from the students.

“And I promise to put as much effort in teaching as well,” he adds. 

Writers come from all backgrounds, anyway. You look at your class schedule and read his name in silence: _Levi Ackerman._ Later on you'll find out that he's an expert on literary nonfiction, having won several awards for his works. People think he's the best essayist out there. 

You are stunned. Maybe you’ll stay.

His words seem to bore into your soul. Later on, the professor explains to a class how a writing workshop works, how people gather in a circle with their seats and take turns providing feedback on a piece. "The goal is to help the writing improve," he points out. _The goal is to let the writer grow_.

When you sit in for the workshop, he grills your work for the first time. It doesn't hurt, but damn, you never knew you could be that bad at writing. Your first piece is an attempt to be funny, but apparently nobody gets your weird sense of humor. It falls flat. Apparently, writing about you almost fainting during a frog dissection experiment back in high school isn’t going to cut it. Professor Levi hands you back the hardcopy of your essay and it’s bleeding in red. He killed half of your paragraphs, rearranged your sentence structures. You’ve never seen so many proofreading marks in your entire life. 

So you work harder on your second essay. You read up a lot, borrow tons of books from the library. Discover John D’Agata, Anne Carson, Joan Didion, Jo-Ann Beard—the veterans of nonfiction. Find a couple of their works that influence you, learn what makes them tick and what doesn't. And then scrap all of it. Figure out your own style.

Understand what it means to write something that matters to you. 

When they workshop your next piece, the entire experience feels vulnerable. The words feel naked. Raw. In your writing, you lament about the loss of loved ones in your life, the incompetence of your government, the never-ending pain of not being good enough. You contextualize everything, of course. Show your side of the story and where you're coming from. It's a personal essay after all. 

Levi asks for feedback on your work from one of your classmates. "It feels… real," the student says, still reading through some parts of your piece. 

"Damn, who hurt you?" Another person asks, and then there's laughter in the room. 

They take turns gushing out on your essay, pointing out sentences and paragraphs that spoke to them. Everyone agrees that something in your work struck a chord. Your heart swells. 

Levi doesn't say much, only facilitates the discussion as clinical as possible until the time is up. But when he hands you back the hardcopy, there's only one comment on the very last page:

"Texture and history mark locales. Consider adding specifics. Otherwise, _absolutely loved this essay_."

The summer ends. You finish the class and return to your science subjects. 

Something in your life has finally begun.

* * *

At the start of the school year, there is a call for applicants for a university-wide writing workshop. The hunger for writing more and being more has gotten into you like a delusional philosophy. You submit your unpublished manuscript for deliberation all because you wanted to see him. Because you found out he’ll be there. There is something in your mind that just cannot let go. Apparently, he's a regular panelist in this annual, all-expense paid trip to a resort where you’ll do nothing but write all weekend. It’s like a retreat for writers. But instead of peace, you’ll find turmoil and more stress in the end. 

You’d love the feel, anyway, you tell yourself that when you get selected. The announcement spreads like wildfire in the science department. Nobody ever has ever thought that you could write. It gives you the sense of acknowledgment that you can be something or someone no one has ever expected.

Every other fellow that got selected is either a fine arts student, an editor in the literary publication, or a published writer. And you’re the odd one out. It feels like you don’t belong, feels like you’re a thorn sticking out, ready to break. They huddle together over cigarettes, speaking of juxtapositions and metaphors, of caesuras and enjambments, the laugh of Medusa and the theory of heteroglossia. You feel a little nervous because you don’t follow at all. 

It’s way different from when you had that first workshop with him. This is nothing like that. People in this workshop know what they’re talking about. They have the language of specificity and jargons for lexicons and what-not. This is not what you expected. 

This time when Levi grills your work, you feel like crying. The white table in front of you has never been so interesting; all you do is stare at it the entire time. He’s harsh and strict, points out all the things that went wrong in your piece. The rest of the panelists also take turns criticizing the bad parts of it. You wrote an essay about the death of a freshman who couldn't afford her college tuition and got kicked out of her classes. The news glossed over her death, turning it into a political act against the university. Like she’s nothing but a pawn in this entire debate. Like she wasn’t a student like you, a daughter like you, a person who made mistakes and felt deprived of the very education that turned its back against her. It had an impact on you, but you still couldn’t figure out why.

It's been an hour of back and forth arguments of how you should revise your work, or if you should just scrap it altogether. A panelist points out that it reads just like a newspaper article; there’s nothing special about it. Just one death forgotten in history. Somebody’s asking where the narrator stands in this matter. You maintain your silence. Because that’s how workshops are all about: maintaining the silence, really. To pave way for discussion.

When they're finally done, they leave the floor open for you to speak.

Your voice cracks. “I’m sorry, I—” Everyone is staring at you. “I’m not, I didn’t, I’m actually not a fine arts major... I just happened to be here.”

The room is tense.

Finally, Levi speaks. “Fuck it, you don’t have to say sorry.” 

There’s a sharpness to his cussing, but his tone is ironically endearing. You wait for him to continue, all eyes on him now.

“It was very brave of you to attempt this, albeit far from being perfect,” he pauses, “But, shit, you know what makes your essay special? It tells me that someone does care about this matter.” He looks at you like you’re the only person in the world. “It’s good to know someone remembers.”

The rest of the night is spent on karaoke and free drinks all around. Everyone is in high spirits. You don’t really feel like it, even if the other fellows are having fun singing to your favorite songs off-key. The other professors are hanging out on the farthest side of the lounge, but Levi goes out of his way just to sit right next to you. 

He hands you a beer. You stare at it. 

“You don’t drink?” Levi asks. 

“I do,” you lie and take it. It's your first time. Someone is punching numbers on the jukebox for a Mariah Carey song. You spit out the beer, not expecting the aftertaste as you cough it out, and Levi thinks it’s just due to the terrible song selection.

“How’s your first ever workshop?”

Say, _it was nerve-wracking_. Heartbreaking. Demoralizing. Traumatic. Never want to experience it, ever again. But of course, you’re very polite so instead, you say: “It was great. I learned a lot.” 

Levi takes a swig from his beer. He asks you personal questions, like where did you go to high school and what are you majoring in. You take this chance to explain where you’re coming from. He listens, and understands. The night ends up with the two of you just talking, the sounds of singing and laughter all around you, the comforting presence of the person you’re not supposed to fall for. Somehow, it dulls the ache away. 

* * *

He offers to assist you in revising your essay, lets you sit in his classes for free so you can understand the basics of nonfiction. It doesn’t feel fair, you think, and you remember the girl in your essay who couldn’t afford her classes, remember that she doesn't stand for the politics behind her death. She was only human, and so are you.

The freshmen he’s teaching are wondering who you are and why you’re sitting in their class. Levi asks one of the students to give you a copy of the syllabus and the readings.

“Hi, my name’s Eren.” The boy smiles at you, his eyes bright and carefree. “If you need help understanding the readings, let me know and I can help you out.”

Then you realize this is his attempt to flirt. He’s just not your type. Still immature. Still brash and bold and completely unaware of the world. Boys like that fall in love hard and then leave you hanging when you finally catch the drift. You prefer men who have their shit together. You thank Eren nevertheless. From the corner of your eye, you see Levi carefully watching the two of you right before he leaves. Running up to him, you catch him in the corridor as if he’s been waiting for you. 

“Well, fuck, looks like you’re all settled in,” he remarks. You notice the hint of jealousy in his voice. 

“I don’t go for the younger ones,” you say like you’ve read his mind. 

“I see.”

The two of you walk together, not caring that there are other people passing you by. You look like just any other student asking help from the professor, anyway. Just like any other.

On lunch breaks, you spend time with him in his office. Levi painstakingly reads one sentence after another, marks all the vague parts in red. You still cringe whenever the page ends up bleeding from the ink. He lends you some of his books as well, the ones that you cannot find in the library. You devote your late nights in coffeeshops revising your work on your laptop, your schedule now halved between this and the rest of your subjects.

_Write drunk,_ he said this in your class once but now it’s ringing in your mind. _Write it drunk._ _Then edit while sober._

And so you do.

There’s a lot of advice that comes from someone who has reached out to help you. One: you need to accept your limitations as a writer. Two: as an essayist, you do need to implicate yourself. Three: you owe the world your art.

The essay gets published in a journal later on. It’s a masterpiece, the editors say, and they thank you for the opportunity of giving them the rights to release your work to the public. You tell Levi about this and thank him for all the effort, for holding your hand, figuratively, as you worked through the piece. You invite him to the launch of the journal and he does attend, albeit standing at the back of the crowd while he watches you explain the process of your writing onstage. When you step down the platform, you run straight towards him for a hug. 

Levi is shocked at first, like he’s never been embraced before. The seconds tick by. There is some slight awkwardness, the way he’s gone rigid from all the warmth and softness. And then he puts his arms around you in response, still with some hesitation. You whisper thanks in his ear and let go. 

He's your mentor and you're his student. That's all there is to it.

* * *

But love happens, anyway.

* * *

The thing about writers is that they are rarely satisfied. Presumably because, well, they're writers. They’re hard to impress. They’re always critical about everything, always commenting on people’s thoughts and ideas like there’s nothing better to talk about. This you know. The burden of writing has made you jaded about the world lately, more conscious about the intricacies of the way things are. At the same time, it has made your introspections even stronger than before. Your self-awareness has sharpened.

Levi then tells you to pursue becoming a writer because you have the talent—"Your writing just needs refining," he says. You believe in him more than you believe in yourself.

So you file a letter of request saying you want to change courses. The department chair is skeptical. 

“Your grades need more work,” Professor Shadis says. He’s about to hand it back to you, unsigned.

But you’re not going to leave it at that, are you? 

Tell him this means a lot to you. Tell him you’ll fight for this. You will fight for this. This is all you'll ever have. You don’t even know where all this raw energy is coming from, but one thing is you know is that you’ll never stop. Maybe it’s passion, after all.

Shadis listens, somewhat impressed. He still thinks you’ll be distracted, whatever form of distraction it may be. 

Nevertheless, after a lot of convincing, he finally relents under certain conditions. The deal is that you finish your science degree first in order to keep your scholarship. Which means you’ll still have to take your science subjects. After that, you can move to creative writing next. If you add up the units correctly, you will have to extend for a year. It doesn't matter. You agree to this and Shadis approves the request.

You run back to the Creative Writing Department and ask for Professor Levi. He leaves an ongoing meeting and sees the signed form in your hands. He takes it so he can affix his signature as well, and then it’s final: you’re officially a creative writing student. 

He’s about to hand it back to you when he stops. “What…?”

There are tears running down your face. You’re biting your lip to stop yourself from trembling, because it’s embarrassing, because this isn’t how you want him to remember you. You’re crying because you’ve never been this happy. 

For the first time, you finally stood up for something. Finally, you have what you want. Like you felt yourself mature as a person in a span of a moment. This has never happened before. Because, if it means being able to be with him for a little bit longer, then all of this will be worth it.

Levi stands there for a moment, waiting. Just watching. 

“Such a sap,” he says, rubbing the top of your head for good measure.

And then he smiles at you.

* * *

This is not a love story. This is a story of growth and acceptance. A coming-of-age in this time and circumstance.

Instead of studying hard, you party harder by drinking. And by party harder, it means drinking alone in the middle of the week. You have published another piece in a different journal and now there are commendations for you left and right. You were never really good with crowds, always a private person just like him. Levi finds you at your favorite bar, knows this is where you’ll be, and shares a bucket of beer with you as a treat. It’s a routine the two of you have settled into: late night stories over drinks and good food, the exhaustion from the burden on your shoulders leaving you for a while.

He begins his rant about how somebody asked him to jot down notes during a meeting with the higher-ups. Chairman Zackley has asked him to simply because he's a writer. As if it’s something only writers can do. Levi cusses, rambles about how creative writing majors are stereotyped as people who take minutes of the meeting. It’s not as bad as being thought of as menu designers, you think. Or, recipe makers. 

“The world is in need of a creative response,” you tell him, and it’s probably the alcohol speaking on behalf of you. Then you lean in towards him. “The world needs to reimagine the ways it’s been designed to think.”

His face is so close across you that you imagine him going in for a kiss. You've dreamed countless times being in his arms, anyway, dreamed of all the sweet gestures that lovers do. You imagine a lot of things as far as your creativity goes. But you gave him an insight so heavy that he's still pondering about your words.

Levi nods, slowly. “I like that.”

“I like that, too!” somebody says.

Two other people are clapping his shoulders from behind. You’re not expecting his friends to join you. Levi introduces his other colleagues, Erwin and Hange, also writers-turned-professors, but in other genres. You don’t complain when they sit across you, Hange almost pushing Levi off the edge. They shake your hand like they’ve been wanting to meet you all along.

“I’ve heard about you!” exclaims Hange. “That essay that got published… it’s fantastic!”

“How did you know about that?”

The smirk from Hange is suspicious. “Oh, well, Levi told us.” 

“He’s been talking nonstop about you.” Erwin smiles. “Like you’re constantly in his mind.”

Your eyes travel to Levi who’s sitting in a corner. He looks away as he downs his beer.

* * *

Being a science major who’s also taking creative writing classes is a challenge. There are lab reports in the morning, essays to submit at night. You have to rush to an open mic at 6:30 pm but you have an exam in statistics from 4 to 7. It would have been wise to back out, but the event organizer is a friend of yours. “And people want to hear you read your work,” she says. 

Besides, Mikasa went with your event name among the other suggestions— _This Is Not An Open Mic: An Open Mic._ It’s the most pretentious title you’ve ever come up with. You pat yourself on the shoulder, proud of your humor.

Unfortunately, your exam has eaten up another hour of your night. You panic because you can feel your phone buzzing in your pocket from the continuous calls and text messages. One of them is probably Levi, looking for you. You can’t even take the calls or read the texts, lest you be accused of cheating. The minutes drone on. The questions on the sheet are just swimming in your eyes. The numbers don’t make sense anymore. Finally, the anxiety weighs down on you. You shotgun your answers, scribble whatever solutions you come up with, and then hope for the best.

It’s a fifteen-minute walk, so you run as fast as your legs can take you to the café outside school. There is still a crowd inside based on what you can see from afar. Maybe somebody’s still performing a piece or so, and you’re slightly thankful. 

But it ends up being a grand entrance, because all their heads turn the moment you enter through the door. The stage is empty. Apparently, they’ve all been waiting for you. 

“Last but not the least,” Mikasa says in relief, and then whispers to you, “Thought you’d never gonna make it.” 

You catch your breath and try to compose yourself from running all the way from the campus just to get here. There’s laughter from the crowd. You step into the stage and thank the guests for waiting, tell them that you just had a three-hour long exam that pretty much fucked up your mind. More laughter, and then it subsides. Levi is watching you from one of the seats. Hange and Erwin are with him, too. You inhale for a few seconds and then begin with reading your work in front of the crowd. 

The piece is all about scars, the physical, the imagined, the invisible. There is a part where you talk about your own scars, from your childhood to the accidents and injuries in your life. You tie it up with the pain and the healing, how it’s always a battle between forgetting and remembering. Because scars map out the perspective of your life. Try to hide them from people but they are still there. But when you do find someone who wants to see them, all your flaws and vulnerabilities, you see scars in a different light. They become your memories. 

When you finish reading, there is only silence for a while. You're scared that you've disappointed them, that you didn't meet their expectations. On the contrary, they are in awe. Someone claps. Another follows. There’s some hooting, too. And then the applause from the crowd drowns all your anxieties away.

Mikasa thanks everyone for coming, but a few remain for drinks and a good conversation for the night.

Levi makes space for you at the lounge so you can sit beside him. He hands you your usual.

“What in the fucking world took you so long?”

“Life,” you say before you chug down your beer. You needed it. There are people who come up to you and compliment your writing, Mikasa included. She's with her other friends from another university. They've traveled all the way here just to meet you in person. You are grateful for the acknowledgement and take this chance to introduce them to Levi. “He’s my soon-to-be thesis adviser, my current life mentor, and forever my literary father,” you tell them.

“And who is she to you?” a guy named Armin asks him. 

“My adopted brainchild,” he responds, and they all burst out laughing. It’s good company after a long night. 

The results of your exam in statistics are returned a week later. You laugh at the huge failing grade on your sheet like you were expecting it.

* * *

The word _essay_ comes from the French verb “essai,” meaning, _to attempt_ . It was coined by Michel de Montaigne, the father of creative nonfiction. The word _essay_ comes from the French verb “essai,” meaning, _to attempt_. The definition is on loop in your mind. You’ve been in too many of Levi’s classes and now you know this trivia by heart. The journey of an essayist is all about the attempt. It’s getting tiring. The same lecture, the same introductions. Only the writing changes, and it’s a hit or miss; either it’s a good draft or not, and you already have the styles of your fellow writer-classmates memorized. You enter your final year in college, the exhaustion already sinking deep into your bones. 

There’s too much going on lately where you cry for days, hoping to write something within those days, empty bottles now filling the cabinet of your dorm kitchen. Your thesis comes in the form of a manuscript, a collection of essays, but there’s nothing coming out of you, no material to write about, nothing. Levi is now your thesis adviser and despite the fact that he tries so hard to keep you going, you feel like your writing is taking a toll on you. 

So instead you focus on other things. You’ve managed to come up with a one-act erotic play for your drama class, but now you’re stuck. You don’t write erotica. You write about longing and pining and yearning, soft hours and moments that make people swoon, but somehow you felt compelled to write a script about raging sex, tongues searching, and bodies ravaging then driving into each other like madness. You now crave for that kind of turbulence when it comes to love.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon and you’re having a consultation with Hange who’s an expert in dramaturgy. Hange’s impressed with what you have so far, but thinks your dialogue needs more work. They’re making grand gestures with their hands when Levi walks into their cubicle.

“Levi, there you are!” Hange hands him your playwriting script. “Help me out here with the line-reading.”

He doesn’t object and plays the part of the lover, Hange reading the beats and gestures in the script, while you play the part of the beloved. The premise is about a mythical deity who gets sent to the human world to learn about mortals but ends up falling for one. Hange points out the scene that they think needs revisions, and Levi takes it from there.

“‘These memories,’” Levi starts, “‘They will haunt you forever.’”

“‘The mortal stands up and reaches out for Alunsina, but Alunsina doesn’t take his hand.’” Hange reads the commentary about the gestures. 

You proceed with your lines. ‘“I need a place to put all these memories down. There’s too many to let go.’”

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll help you,” he takes a deep breath, internalizing the dialogue. “‘I’ll help you hold on to them.’”

‘“Alunsina shakes her head,’” Hange reads, their voice tender. “‘The mortal holds her in his arms, his face pleading. But Alunsina is relentless.’”

“‘It’s too much, I can’t let you do this,’” you say.

“‘Why not?’”

“‘Because, I’m only human whenever I’m with you.”

Levi’s eyes bore into yours.

And then you realize what the next scene is going to be. Hange reads the part where the two lovers undress each other, their mouths searching and panting, bodies lost in desire. There’s no dialogue. Hange’s voice is low and passionate, and you just want to hide your face and disappear as Levi reads the rest of the script in silence, his face bearing no expression. The descriptions and actions are so vivid you can imagine the two of you actually getting down and dirty. And then the scene fades to black. 

“What do you think?” Hange asks both of you. Their tone is back to normal. 

You hope your face isn’t giving your heart away. “Probably have to fix some lines.”

“This is the side of you that I haven’t seen in any of your works before.” He’s amused, handing back your script to Hange. “You should probably write a disclaimer—all the characters in this play are just a projection of yourself.”

He leaves after that, you and Hange still in stupor. Sounds about right, you think.

* * *

The two of you are out walking along the streets outside campus once again. For some reason, you really do enjoy these kinds of nights, and you’re going to miss it once you graduate. Familiar faces pass you by, but neither of you care about being recognized. People forget all the time.

You've been accepted to another writing workshop outside the university. Levi wrote you a letter of recommendation and the panelists were in awe of your manuscript. You tease him that you should probably start your own writing group, call it the Wounded Women Writers Workshop or WWWW for short.

He snorts, amused of your humor. He joins you in on that by saying that he should probably moderate the discussion. To prevent anyone from crying.

Levi then tells you about his upcoming book. He hasn’t told anyone else about this but you, and you feel so light-hearted about being his secret-keeper. The excitement shows in your eyes, because you can't wait to be there when it gets launched, sure enough that he’ll get all the support he needs. 

“I doubt that will happen,” he says. 

“Why?”

And then he laments about a recent argument with the faculty. This time, they fought about the different views of the professors about writing, how they think the students should focus more on getting into the industry instead of fully-immersing themselves into the notions of literature—of what makes a poem a poem, or why a work is considered an essay when the narrative reads like a story. Writers are self-reflexive, essayists even more so. Your favorite author once wrote that writers are also selling themselves out all the time. Joan Didion’s probably right.

But you understand where he’s coming from. It’s the tenderness of his affections that makes you love him in secret. As much as he seems strong on the outside, he's really a wounded person deep inside. Levi sighs after his ramble. “I just want to protect the students from the harsh politics of writing.”

“Well, you can’t protect us forever,” you point out. “Someday, we’ll all have to figure that out ourselves.”

“Perhaps,” he ponders. A group of students come out of the bar, arms around each other. One of them is probably drunk, maybe more. Levi breaks the silence again, “So, what are your plans in the future?”

You want to say, _let’s take this to the next level, let’s be something more_. But you’re torn between a confession and impressing him. You decide to choose the latter. "I think… I'd like to do my studies abroad."

"Right after you graduate?"

You nod. He doesn't say anything for a while. You’ve always wanted to get a master’s degree, always wanted to further your education. Because an undergraduate degree doesn’t seem to satiate your hunger for learning. 

“That’s what I’ve always liked about you,” he finally speaks. You stop dead in your tracks and face him. The bright lights from the lamppost are above you illuminating your faces. 

“What do you mean?”

Levi elaborates. “You know what you want to do. But you’re always hesitating if it will work out the way you want it to. Shit, I like that. I like people who are willing to be wrong.”

You don’t know how to respond to that.

And then changing the subject, he tells you that one of his former students who have already graduated has gotten married recently. Said person will be using her husband’s surname from now on. He’ll have to get used to addressing her by that, he says. You think it’s too much anyway to prod him more about his feelings, so you let the new topic flow. 

“When I get married someday, I’d like to keep my name,” you say. “That way, the world will know me just as you always do.”

* * *

The weeks go by, each day closer to your graduation. It’s the semester's break, a chance to lay low. You spend the days in solitude, taking the time off to apply for graduate schools abroad. You’re doing this because you want to be more, strive more. You’re doing this because you want to be worth something in his eyes. Your recent off-campus workshop has been a success; your works have been praised once again and you wish he was there to hear it all. Levi sends you a few readings here and there through e-mail, some essays, but mostly poems. You wonder if he's sending them to your for your thesis inspiration, or if those works spoke to him in some way that reminds him of you. Like there's a hidden message if you dig deep enough. The way people send mixtapes to each other as a sign of love. You bookmark them on your browser and say thanks, trying not to flirt lest it sends the wrong message across to him. Maybe after you finish your further studies, you’ll come back and then you can apply for a teaching position at the university. Be teaching right beside him. Imagine yourself walking with him not as student-and-teacher, but maybe something else, something even more. The idea sits in your mind. 

* * *

He invites you to hang out the moment classes have started and you say yes in a heartbeat. You haven’t seen him in weeks, haven’t talked to him at all during the break. The café is almost empty at this time and you’re just sitting by yourself, coming up with a new piece about your writing. And then someone calls out your name. 

You’d know that voice anywhere so you look up and see Levi coming in. 

The smile in your face disappears. 

He’s with another person. The first thing you notice is their hands clasped together. 

"I want you to meet Petra." He introduces you to her, and you have to plaster the smile back on your face. 

You take Petra’s hand and shake it. The café server asks if you want to get something. Out of frustration, you end up ordering a ridiculously expensive affogato for later. You look back over your shoulder and see the two of them still holding hands. 

"So…” Petra attempts to start a conversation when you get back to your seat. “Levi has told me that you're a budding writer.”

“I got conned,” you say, and Petra laughs. Your sense of humor has definitely improved.

Petra has a pretty face and is very polite. Levi tells you that she’s a fashion designer. Never thought he’d be the type to fall for that. But Petra looks like an angel, acts like one. She touches him tenderly, rubs his thigh as she tells a story, marking him as hers and you're there just sitting right across him. Apparently they’ve been dating for quite awhile now. Levi has made it official just a few weeks back, according to Petra. If you count the days in the calendar correctly, it happened around the time when you told him you were going abroad. 

“I never thought he’d actually put a label on us.” Petra claps her hands giddily. “He’s just not the type to do that.”

“Yeah, that’s really out of his character,” you mutter.

Petra then invites you to grab some drinks with them. You ask for your affogato for takeout. The night seems long. Lights are dim and some obscure playlist is playing in the background as you watch them talk about their plans together. You have never downed so many beers within a span of an hour. After a while, Petra then excuses herself, gives him a peck on the cheek, and says it was nice meeting you. She needs to leave early to catch the last train. Levi offers to walk her to the station, but for some reason, Petra declines. 

“You two should catch up,” she points out. Levi turns to look at you and your heart is ready to break. You take out your already melted affogato and start eating it.

He goes back to where you’re sitting and maintains the silence, maintains the distance. There's an invisible barrier between the two of you. Now you’re left nursing your hangover with your stupid ice cream coffee. 

Levi then leans forward. “Shit, I just wanted you to know—”

“Know what?” you snap.

“Know about her,” he says quietly. “She hasn’t met anyone else yet. I wanted you to be the first.”

It’s pathetic, the way you’re eating your dessert and crying at the same time. 

You're waiting to hear him say, _I’m sorry._

You want him to say, _I didn’t mean to hurt you._

But it never arrives. He just watches you the entire time. You’re aware that you’re also hurting him just by choosing to leave. 

* * *

Perhaps the pain is a way for you to put all your focus into writing once again. Write about all the hurt and the pain. Let it all out, but be responsible. Remember that you still have to control your emotions when you’re writing. Because the best kinds of writing are the ones that still attempt to keep the feelings in.

Levi spots you standing at the back corner during a plenary discussion. He goes to you and puts a hand on your shoulder. You don’t move at all. Petra is right beside him, but she pretends not to notice. 

“Once the session is over, I’d like you to meet the editors,” he says.

You don’t respond to that.

The talk is all about the hybrid forms of genre: a cross between a photo and a narrative, a map and a dialogue, a poem and an essay. It’s interesting how these things end up making new definitions of art. These are the kinds of talks that you can sit in and listen to forever. 

When the open forum is done, he takes your hand and brings you to the front. The speakers, also editors, apparently are his friends. They all went to the same grad school in the past. He introduces you to them, his hand settled on the small of your back. The same thing happens when he tells them that you’re the writer who had some works published in their journal: they gush out and hyperventilate, like you’re some sort of superstar, when in reality, you’re just a student who’s pining for her thesis adviser. One more false hope and you're ready to have a breakdown. 

“Her final manuscript is just about done,” Levi tells them, which is a hint for them to grab a copy once it’s out. 

“That's cool,” one of them says. “Any upcoming works?”

“I don’t know.” You’re telling the truth. Levi’s hand is still on your back. “What I’m about to write in the future may not matter in the long run, anyway.”

Your eyes are downcast. You're completely burnt out at this point.

“Hey, remember what I told you?” Levi frowns, like you’re the biggest disappointment in his eyes. “About what doesn’t matter?”

You try to recollect the exact phrase he taught you before. “‘It means nothing’ means something.” 

It’s a play on words. He pats you on the shoulder, proud. His friends think that the two of you have some sort of inside joke, so they let you be. 

Levi’s right. What doesn’t matter _actually matters_. 

* * *

Professor Erwin invites you to speak at the welcoming orientation for the incoming freshmen. It’s an honor, a rare privilege for you, but with the way things are going, you don’t know what to tell the kids except to quit writing before it’s too late. Tell them to find a different career. Make their parents proud, instead of being broke and depressed in the end. 

You later find out that Levi’s the one who recommended you as a speaker. Erwin said something about you being inspirational after crying in front of Levi before. On the day of the orientation, Levi’s wearing a formal attire which makes him look all the more breathtaking despite his small stature. Apparently, he’s also responsible for introducing you before you give your speech. 

He stands on the podium and gives a brief background of the Creative Writing program. He tells them that the university has honed several young writers who have continued to improve their craft all over the years. He names some of them, especially those who have reaped awards for their art. Levi then looks at you from your seat. “This student of mine here is on her way. She's probably the most brilliant writer I’ve ever met.”

The people are trying to crane their necks just to catch a glimpse of you after he says this.

Despite all the heaviness of it, your heart feels so light.

Over the cocktails and snacks, you find him talking to some incoming freshmen, highly-impressed. Their eyes hold the same optimism that you used to have. When they see you coming over to, they thank you for your words of wisdom. Little did they know that it was a generic speech, and you’re not even proud of it. Your talk was barely anything truthful, just something they wanted to hear, instead of what they actually needed to. 

When they finally leave you alone, you lean against the wall right beside where Levi is. “You told Erwin that I broke down the day I majored in creative writing?”

“Of course, it just shows how committed you are.” He takes a sip of his tea. 

“I got accepted to grad school abroad,” you say, like it makes sense to segue into this topic. “It’s final.” Like nothing else can change your mind.

Levi looks into your eyes as if trying to find some meaning out of your words. You're not sure if he's searching for something else: a lie, perhaps, or a hidden message where he needs to read between the lines. In the end, all he says is, “Congratulations.”

“That’s it?”

He puts down his teacup. “Just proves that a CW major can do more than just write shitty minutes or menus.”

* * *

It’s not about getting somewhere after this, you realize. It’s about understanding how you now perceive the world. It’s the last day of your college years, your final manuscript now bound and published, ready to collect dust in the university archives after putting your heart and soul into it. You had to defend your work and writing process in front of a panel, and it still hasn't registered in your mind that you've already reached the culmination of what you've dreamed of all along.

You’re in Levi's office one last time as you hand him the sole copy. He runs a hand through the engraved title of your work. “It’s finally done, huh?” 

You're sitting across him from the other side of his desk. Outside the window, you can see some students chasing each other in the open field. Sometimes you wonder what it’s like to be this carefree once more. 

“Before you send it to the library, read the acknowledgments,” you tell him, your hands resting on the surface of his desk.

He does as he’s told and goes to the last page, right where you listed names of people you wanted to thank for helping you out throughout your college life. 

At the very last line, you have dedicated the entire manuscript: _To Levi_ _—_ _I wouldn't be the writer I am right now if it weren't for you._

“Thank you,” he says as he puts his hand on top of yours. His touch feels warm. “It means a lot to me.”

This time you hold yourself back from crying. It’s a wonder how you’re able to do it, really. 

* * *

The separation anxiety finally sinks in the day before your graduation. Everything's a blur despite the sendoff parties left and right. Last you joined a drinking spree with friends, you couldn't even last an hour. The room felt suffocating despite in the presence of good company. 

Levi agrees to meet you in front of the campus library. You find him sitting on the ledge of the fountain. This is how you'll always remember him: your favorite person in the world just waiting for you in your favorite place in the world.

"What's the matter?"

You can't even look at him in the eyes. “I’m scared of not coming back.”

He doesn't ask any further and takes you out for a walk. The campus lights are dim and low, fireflies glowing in the dark, cobblestone paths paving your way. You're supposed to be at another sendoff, but you really can't take it anymore. Besides, it feels comforting just walking like this, doing nothing, just being with him. You hope you can still do this every time nothing seems to be going the way you want it to be.

“You know," he finally starts, "the mere fact that you fear of not coming back... it gives me a sense of hope that you'll be coming back.”

The fireworks have started, colors bursting above you in the black of the night before fading away as they fall. If you listen closely, you can hear people cheering from all the bars across campus. It's a celebration that they think they deserve. Tonight, the lights are burning bright for all of you. 

"Levi, I—"

He shushes your lips. "Don't talk."

The words will fail both of you, anyway. 

He then pulls you into his arms and holds you tight. A dam breaks inside you, all the pain pouring out. And you're trembling because you're in love with a beautiful man who has taken you under his wing, but you know you've reached the part where you have to say goodbye, know all these memories will one day fade like everything else. He slowly kisses the top of your head, and when you look into his eyes, he kisses your forehead, gently. Like you're something fragile and anything too much will break you, and all you can do is cling tighter to him, like he's the one who's bound to disappear and you'll be left to yourself with nothing but the remnants of pain.

"Hey, it will be alright," he says, as he murmurs into your hair. 

You then wonder if he loves you back in some way, even if it’s in a way you could never understand. 

* * *

Graduation day feels all so surreal, all the warm wishes and promises to never forget. The entire thing of you coming up the stage just to receive your diploma takes 10 seconds tops. Then you have to wait for four hours just to listen to everyone else get called. You have received an award for your writing, the thunderous applause deafening enough throughout the hall. Before, you've always thought of your graduation as a grand finale, but now you can't even process the meaning of goodbye.

Levi spots you in the bustling corridor. It’s funny how you can always find each other in a sea of people. He's wearing his formal suit, hair slicked back. The other students are walking around in their caps and togas, feeling accomplished. There's no empty walkway for the two of you to spend some alone time together, so you settle for a classroom.

"What now?" he asks, he props himself up on the teacher’s desk. 

You sit beside him, shoulders brushing against each other. "Perhaps let things be the way they're meant to be."

Tell him you'll come back, regardless. Promise him you will. Hope that you will return.

To your writing.

To all the memories.

And most of all, to him.

Levi clears his throat to say something. "If by any chance you're still available when you get back...” 

Then what?

Maybe when you’re finally back, the two of you can meet up once again, see if the spark is still there. 

_If we're still single by the time you get back, maybe_ —

_If we both learned how to heal, maybe_ —

_If we still had not fallen in love with someone else, then yes. I'll choose you again in a heartbeat._

Instead, he finishes his sentence with this:

"If by any chance you're still available when you get back, then maybe we can get together."

* * *

After all those years, you do come back, but not in the way you expected to. You ask to meet him in the old-fashioned restaurant right across campus, just like the old times. And when you come in, he’s already there, waiting. He pulls you in for a hug, and for a second, something in your heart sparks once again until—

"Levi, I want you to meet someone," you say.

Behind you, your fiancé introduces himself and offers his hand. Levi takes it, his expression unreadable. 

The three of you sit down together for dinner and drinks, Levi sitting across you and your fiancé. He orders you your usual, like nothing has changed. You miss this beer, anyway. It was your go-to drink before back in college. The conversation is light, small talks of how’s it going and what’s happening lately. Levi has launched his newest book at the start of the year; the first batch of copies have sold out and now he has to reprint. You find out he’s still teaching, that he’s got a promotion just recently. It didn't work out between him and Petra, unfortunately. They broke up some months after you had left.

Meanwhile, you no longer write; instead, you’re back to doing science, working long hours in a lab. Writing will always be in your heart, though. You tell him this, so that he feels that all those years he spent mentoring you were never wasted. Levi looks at you as if there were things he’s been meaning to ask, things he's been wanting to tell you, but he’s holding back, probably out of respect for the person beside you. 

"So, what's your best memory of her as your student?" Your fiancé asks him while eating, and you're thankful that he's bridging the silence.

Levi looks at you longingly for a moment, and all these memories come rushing back in your mind. He mentions all the good times: from how the two of you first met, to the times you cried to him, the times you laughed, until the day you left. The details vary, and it’s probably because he’s seeing it from his perspective. It’s the impression that counts, anyway. But you also realize that he didn’t really pick a single memory. 

“There’s too many.” That's all he says. He remembers everything, as if every moment you spent together mattered to him. And then he adds, “She's probably the reason I am who I am right now.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. You never really learned how to respond to the wonderful things he says. But now you realize, there is a difference between the person you will always love and the person you end up marrying. You hope that regardless of who you pick in the end, the story will still make sense to you. 

It’s already late and your fiancé has to meet your family first thing tomorrow morning. You only came back to say goodbye so you look at Levi one last time. 

“Everything will be alright,” you say as you tenderly squeeze his hand. 

“I know," he assures you. "In the end, it always is.” 

You think this is more of a reassurance to himself than it is to you. And then, Levi smiles. 

He’s always had a beautiful smile, and you wish you had seen more of it. It's the kind of memory you'd want to remember forever.

Some sort of happiness fills your heart. You have never felt this way before amidst this kind of farewell. Your fiancé takes your hand as he calls for a cab. Levi catches a glimpse at you before he turns around and leaves.

The question you've always had at the back of your mind finally disappears. You feel lighter as you breathe in the evening air.

**Author's Note:**

> nobody:
> 
> a friend: "is this your life story?"
> 
> *spits out my tea*
> 
> \--------------------------------
> 
> Thank you for reading! It began with an anonymous prompt that I received on Tumblr. The entire piece was inspired by Lorrie Moore's How to Become a Writer. Alunsina is an actual Filipino deity who got stripped of her powers and had to spend her life as a mortal. This is my first fanfiction piece that features a reader: you. 
> 
> So whoever you are, I hope you feel alright after this. 
> 
> (Holler at me [ @djmarinizelablog ](http://djmarinizelablog.tumblr.com/)on Tumblr. Feel free to send prompts as well!)


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